Christopher Stocks

Poetry

Portland Faust

Sell me your soul.
Who me?
Yes, you.
No.
Oh go on.
Piss off!
There’s something in it for you.
Yeah, like what?
You name it.
What, anything?
Yup.
Hmm, like sixteen-year-old virgins with big tits?
Yup.
And Fosters on tap?
Uh-huh.
What, all day?
No problem.
How about a really ugly fuck-off dog that everyone’s afraid of?
We can do that.
Nice one.
All yours, mate.
You sure there’s no catch?
We…ell… Like what, for instance?
I dunno. You’re not from the council are you?
Do I look like I’m from the fucking council?
OK I guess not, but what’s with the tail?
What tail? Oh that [giggles nervously]. That’s a dongle.
A what?
It’s like wifi… Listen, are you interested or not coz I haven’t got all day.
How much.
Twenty.
Twenty quid?
Yup.
Make it twenty-five and it’s all yours mate.
Cool – let’s be off then.
So where’re we going first?
Cashpoint.
And then?
There’s this really hot bar I know…
Rock on. They serve Fosters?